Sweet Allure
by Ebony Kain
Summary: Thundercracker finds himself in the harrowing position of both prisoner and patient of the Autobots.


**A note from the author: **So last summer I kink-memed myself. I was smacked in the face by a bunny while reading The Vagina Monologues. I was going to post a prompt to the Transformers anon kink meme... but as I was typing it out I decided I wanted to try writing it myself, instead. So… though first, here's the prompt I had been about to post and never did:

_In general, a Decepticon that takes it in the valve is considered weak, and thus prey to be dominated. Spike-to-valve interfacing is never a completely consensual affair. As a result of this mindset, most mechs feel indifferent toward their valves. Those who are dominated regularly by others tend to actively hate their valves._

_One of the latter finds himself in the Autobot brig, awaiting interrogation. Either a guard or the interrogator himself has something of a valve fetish—he loves the look, the smell, the taste, the feel of them. The Autobot is curious about the captured 'Con's valve. Maybe he's a frame type that the Autobots don't have. Feeling confident in getting away with it, he orders the Decepticon to reveal his valve._

_But to the Decepticon's confusion, there's no painful forcing of a spike into him. The Autobot just looks. And just the act of looking causes the Autobot to run hot._

Though as I was writing it the characters, as they are wont to do, took things in a sliiightly different direction. We'll see where they end up now that we've already gone off the map. ^_~

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**Title:** Sweet Allure  
**Author:** Ebony Kain (Ithilgwath)  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** Sadly I don't own Transformers. Except for my action figures. I own those. *pets them* My preciousssssesss~

**Notes:** this hasn't been worked on since last fall. There are about 4 pages additional written out beyond this but they need to be typed up. I'm hoping that posting this now will help get some of the creative juices going again. Having multiple stories to work on tends to help me avoid writer's block.

* * *

Waking up in medical is never a good thing. It means, after all, that one has somehow managed to get himself slagged up and hard. Some optimist might argue that waking up in medical isn't bad at all—because waking up in medical was still _waking up_.

Thundercracker wasn't dead and in the Pit, yet.

At the moment, however—what, with how much he hurt and the orange ceiling he was staring at that still managed to be horribly blinding in its hideousness even with the lighting turned down to night-cycle dim—Thundercracker wasn't too sure that this was something to find a silver lining in.

He narrowed his focus down on that ceiling, sure that there was a significance to it that heralded not only a 'not good', but a downright 'bad thing'. If he could only get through all these error messages and damage reports, he could place it. But some of those notices were high priority. Such as why he was only registering one thruster working.

Scratch that. His systems were only registering one thruster, period.

...There was that sinking feeling in his fuel tanks that definitely went far beyond 'bad' things.

Especially when he found he couldn't move his arms to push himself up to see the damage. A quick flurry of all his actuators testing revealed he was pinioned to a medical table by both wrist joints, and also his wings.

More worrying than the fact of finding himself restrained at all was the fact that his legs were _not_lashed down. Thundercracker tested his limbs again, finding his left leg capable of perfect motion. Actually, it felt as if his hip had slightly more range of motion than he was used to.

This... was so bad. The Seeker could imagine perfectly well why he would be restrained with his legs unfettered. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened, though he'd been under the impression that the Constructicons tended to refrain from the dominance games the rest of the Decepticons engaged in. No one wanted to piss off the mechs responsible for saving your life, after all. Unofficially, as a result, the Constructicons typically enjoyed a position toward the top of the pecking order, with only Megatron above them.

Thundercracker's processors raced, trying to come up with some reason he would have ended up on the Constructicon's slag-list. He knew he generally had it good—kept his head down most of the time, and had his trine to look out for him (though occasionally he and Skywarp would be targets for those mechs frustrated with their inability to take Starscream down), and in general did his best not to attract the attentions of, well, anyone. He couldn't think of anything he'd done that would cause any of the Constructicon's to put him in—

Wait.

Orange ceiling.

_Autobots._

And as if a switch had finally been flicked in his cortex, the memories of the battle came rushing back. Trying to escape the human chemical plant with the converted energon while the ground troops tangled with the Autobots. Those red and gold menaces jumping down from only Unicron knew where—the red one landing hard on his fuselage. Trying not to drop any of brightly glowing cubes from his hands and hearing Ramjet shout a warning just before something exploded to his right and sheering pain and blinding light, deafening boom, sensation of falling.

There was a loud, stuttering whirr and it took a long moment for Thundercracker to calm his processor enough to shut off the apparently broken cooling fan in his right side. And oh yes, there it was in the damages queue, blinking at him. Lovely. Like he hadn't already figured it out.

Fans quieted after his mini-panic episode, Thundercracker caught a new sound. One that hadn't originated from his own damaged body. Someone was in the room with him.

Slowly he turned his head to the left, lifting it a little to see.

Through the darkness of the dimmed medical center a visor glowed an intent blue. Before he could say anything—demands, questions, bluffs—the visor came closer, soft foot falls accompanying the approach.

"I already comm'ed Ratchet that you're awake. He'll be here soon."

Close enough for the Autobot to reach out and lay a hand on his thigh armor, Thundercracker could make out the 'Bot's identity in the combined glow of their optics. Jazz. Sabotuer. Head of Special Operations and Right Hand of Optimus Prime.

Such a high-ranking officer as his personal guard? Thundercracker almost felt flattered.

Except for the part where he was bound to a table, save for his legs, with the Autobot's hand on his thigh. And that visor didn't seem to be aimed at his _face_.

The lighting came up abruptly, Thundercracker's optical array unable to iris closed quickly enough to prevent his photoreceptors from sending sharp pain signals stabbing through his central processor. A half strangled grunt escaped his vocalizer along with a burst of surly static as he let his head drop back to the table with a heavy thud.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," the medic's voice was rough. He'd probably been asleep when the little race car had comm'ed him.

"Is that where this is?" the Seeker muttered as he reset his optics. "And here I thought I was in the Pit. To ugly a paint job for the Well." And Primus, that orange really was actually worse in full light.

"Painted that way to match your cockpit, don't you know," the medic, Ratchet, snapped back. From the tool-lined tray to the Seeker's right he picked up a datapad that seemed plugged into the large scanner attached to the medical table.

"Going to go out on a limb," Ratchet continued before Thundercracker could give his offended reply, "and assume you're not an idiot. You're here instead of the brig, you _know _you're injured." A pause for confirmation.

"The error and damage reports were a clue." Not that he'd gotten through the whole list yet, and at this rate it didn't look like he was going to.

The datapad was set back down. "Right. Got to admit you're handling it a lot better than most. Repairing the internals wasn't a problem. It's replacing the damaged armor that is. We just don't have anything that heavy-duty, and frankly none of us are sure we should expend the resources to manufacture something like that.

"You're no longer in danger of bleeding out or offlining. Your self-repair systems will take care of the aches and pains in less than two rotations." Tools were picked up and set back down on their tray, Ratchet's pause lengthening as he kept focusing on Thundercracker's face and then looking away again. The Seeker could feel the medic wanting to say something else. He had no idea why the white Autobot was hesitating.

"So," Ratchet's voice halted just briefly, switching tracks, "so the leg is going to stay un-attached for now, but we will keep that sensor-blocked. And we have nothing suitable to replace your hip and abdominal armor. Your pelvic armor is also too damaged to attach, but we are working on coming up with a temporary fix for that."

Thundercracker stopped listening at that point, feeling like he'd just flown through a sudden blizzard. The extra movement to his functioning left leg making a horrible new sense. No pelvic armor meant that the top edge of his thigh armor didn't hit into it and the hip joint could move to it's maximum possible range.

No pelvic armor also meant that his entire interface array was visible to anyone who looked. Which was embarrassing by itself. But the last time Thundercracker had been dominated by another Decepticon his port cover had been pried open so hard the thin metal had ripped out of its housing. His _open port _was bared for all to see.

And that went far beyond humiliating.

Jazz's hand was still on his thigh. A fact that came to light with the blue Seeker trying desperately to conceal himself with only one leg and a non-responsive stump.

"It's why you'll be staying here, in the isolation room, instead of goin' down to the brig," the saboteur's voice cut across Ratchet's, his hand giving Thundercracker's leg a light pat before letting go. "Know what, Ratch? Since you're here, I'm'onna get myself a cube. Be real quick. An' you can do your whole patient-doctor-privacy thing, 'kay?"

Thundercracker's optics tracked him as he left the room, only half listening as Ratchet outlined the repairs that had been made and what still needed fixing, whether or not it was something that the Autobots could or would do. He wished comms were on the list of willing-to-repair. He wanted his trinemates. Even just to hear their voices. The way Jazz had looked at him in the darkness was... so not good.

Not a good thing at all.

* * *

_One last note. Question more like: My original plan was to have this entirely from TC's point of view. But I keep getting inklings of ideas for Jazz, and even one from Ratchet today. Any opnions on switching POVs? I thought the concept would be more powerful from TC's POV only. But would it really detract anything to have POVs switch in chapters? or change outright to 3rd person omniscient? Thoughts? Opinions? _


End file.
